So I took a radical detour from my heavily cerebral reading list and read a romantic comedy. I was taking a chance since my last foray into the Romance genre ended in disappointment and wasted money. But "Ain't She Sweet" was delightfully good. It had the best aspects of most romantic comedies with truly interesting characters that had dimension; unlike the few Romance novels I tried and failed to read.
Popular and beautiful Sugar Beth has had three husbands, and is coming back into her hometown after leaving a trail of hurt and anger a mile wide. She's also flat broke and her childhood home is now owned by the teacher she wrongfully accused of sexual misconduct.
Needless to say everyone wants revenge. But Sugar Beth has learned some hard lessons since leaving her hometown, and has come back stronger, though much more gun shy of personal relationships.
In some ways it was predictable, especially if you're a fan of rom-com's, but in other ways it was a pleasant surprise. The way Sugar Beth repaired some of her relationships, the turn her love affair with our male protagonist took and the richness of the supporting characters was all a nice departure from the romance novels I've read in the past.
I highly recommend this, especially if you're in the mood for a book you can just zone out to.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Feeling Better
O-K...So I realize my last post was a bit histrionic. I apologize for those it may have been uncomfortable for. I certainly didn't mean to make anyone feel like that or make anyone upset. If I did I am so sorry.
A little update: I'm better.
The novel isn't an ash heap.
And a closer look at the critiques with Dan helped me find some answers as to why one of them said some of the things he/she did. There was some simple misunderstandings mainly from the synopsis and from my lack of listening to my inner artist and making some very simple changes before sending the submission off; i.e. changing the protagonists age from 25 to 16.
So, thank you for bearing with my depressed artist rant. I think I just had to get it out and since I'd already vomited some of that bile onto Dan I wanted a different place to vent the rest.
Thanks for giving me that place.
A little update: I'm better.
The novel isn't an ash heap.
And a closer look at the critiques with Dan helped me find some answers as to why one of them said some of the things he/she did. There was some simple misunderstandings mainly from the synopsis and from my lack of listening to my inner artist and making some very simple changes before sending the submission off; i.e. changing the protagonists age from 25 to 16.
So, thank you for bearing with my depressed artist rant. I think I just had to get it out and since I'd already vomited some of that bile onto Dan I wanted a different place to vent the rest.
Thanks for giving me that place.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Pale copies
In the movie "Little Women" Christian Bale, playing "Teddy" has a line that still haunts me. He and the character Amy are in Europe to feed their artistic souls and hopefully have their talents recognized by the people that matter. In response to Amy encouraging Teddy about his music he says, "My compositions are like your paintings. Pale copies of another man's genius."
Ouch, ouch, ouch.
I've feared becoming that statement since I heard it. To feel so much artistic longing, to feel the beauty of creating inside of you but never able to express it?
Oh my God, I can't think of a worse existence.
Here's the thing though, I feel today that maybe I'm facing it.
I'm real good at giving snippets of inspiration. A little nudge here, a character idea there, a scene, a line of dialogue.
But when it comes to the full on take the reigns and go aspect I fear that I may only project the "pale copies of another man's genius".
What has brought on this bleak outlook, you may ask?
I submitted to a literary contest in February. I never expected to win, my only hope was to be one of the eight finalists in my genre; baring that to have really good reviews.
Neither came true.
As part of the contest I receive two critiques, neither of which was particularly inspiring. One of them complained that in the twenty-six pages I sent, my protagonist was one note. Another accused me of "ripping off" Robert Jordan. One gave me literal line by line critiques, while the other simply told me that my scenes rambled on and that if I didn't change my second chapter he personally wouldn't bother reading my story if some idiot chose to publish it.
Of course they used slightly more...professional verbiage.
I know it wasn't as polished grammatically as it could have been. And that the synopsis left out the fact the war wasn't unending (as with Jordan) but instead the sisters would be the ones to end it and bring peace to the land. But I was more than a little annoyed to read that I should replace my dialogue with narrative and that my mandatory one page synopsis didn't have enough detail.
Maybe you're sitting here thinking "You should be more open to honest critique. What do you want everyone just to tell you how great you are and let you fall on your face?"
The answer is no, of course not. I like getting honest feedback, it's helped me a lot in the past. I'm not sure what the exact difference is here, but there is one. Perhaps it's feeling like I'm being told by two people from a well respected writers association that I suck the hind teat of the Fantasy genre, I'm a copy cat with no real talent (pale copy), and that I should simply be satisfied being a wife and mother and stick to writing Christmas cards.
I think in the absence of other feedback, the negative looms larger than it might otherwise. Only one person that I sent the book to after I'd finished the major revisions a month and half ago has finished reading it and said anything about it. She liked it, said it was a page turner. She doesn't read Fantasy books as a rule but she loved this one. She'll tell you that the fact that she's my mother-in-law doesn't color her judgement and for those who know Judy, you know she's telling the truth.
But nothing from any other friend or family member.
I understand people have lives, they have their own artistic and personal pursuits, families, jobs, responsibilities that take up every moment of every day. I get it, I really do.
At this point, though, I almost wish they'd just dump it in the trash and tell me they couldn't get through it; that the first two chapters didn't grab them enough to read it through to the end and that the only reason they are attempting to trudge along is because they're my friends and care about me. That the dialogue sucks, it's just not different enough for each character (a critique from the contest). That the concept has been done to death, that it's not original enough in the "sword and sorcery" sub-genre of Fantasy to really make it. That my prose is amateur and clunky. That it sucks the hind teat of Fantasy and should be relegated to the half off bin at Barnes and Noble.
The thing is, I never thought it was the next great Fantasy novel; not like Jacqueline Carey or Brandon Sanderson, or Jim Butcher's stories. But I always thought, or hoped, that it was good. A solid story, with interesting characters, and a villain you might love to hate. And at the very least a story my friends and family would want to read. That if it didn't find a publisher they would want to keep reading because they liked the story. I always thought that, at least, would be enough for me; if I could touch and entertain my friends and family with it.
Not to sound over dramatic, but at this point...well, the thought of building a nice little pyre and setting the damn thing on fire has crossed my mind today.
Ouch, ouch, ouch.
I've feared becoming that statement since I heard it. To feel so much artistic longing, to feel the beauty of creating inside of you but never able to express it?
Oh my God, I can't think of a worse existence.
Here's the thing though, I feel today that maybe I'm facing it.
I'm real good at giving snippets of inspiration. A little nudge here, a character idea there, a scene, a line of dialogue.
But when it comes to the full on take the reigns and go aspect I fear that I may only project the "pale copies of another man's genius".
What has brought on this bleak outlook, you may ask?
I submitted to a literary contest in February. I never expected to win, my only hope was to be one of the eight finalists in my genre; baring that to have really good reviews.
Neither came true.
As part of the contest I receive two critiques, neither of which was particularly inspiring. One of them complained that in the twenty-six pages I sent, my protagonist was one note. Another accused me of "ripping off" Robert Jordan. One gave me literal line by line critiques, while the other simply told me that my scenes rambled on and that if I didn't change my second chapter he personally wouldn't bother reading my story if some idiot chose to publish it.
Of course they used slightly more...professional verbiage.
I know it wasn't as polished grammatically as it could have been. And that the synopsis left out the fact the war wasn't unending (as with Jordan) but instead the sisters would be the ones to end it and bring peace to the land. But I was more than a little annoyed to read that I should replace my dialogue with narrative and that my mandatory one page synopsis didn't have enough detail.
Maybe you're sitting here thinking "You should be more open to honest critique. What do you want everyone just to tell you how great you are and let you fall on your face?"
The answer is no, of course not. I like getting honest feedback, it's helped me a lot in the past. I'm not sure what the exact difference is here, but there is one. Perhaps it's feeling like I'm being told by two people from a well respected writers association that I suck the hind teat of the Fantasy genre, I'm a copy cat with no real talent (pale copy), and that I should simply be satisfied being a wife and mother and stick to writing Christmas cards.
I think in the absence of other feedback, the negative looms larger than it might otherwise. Only one person that I sent the book to after I'd finished the major revisions a month and half ago has finished reading it and said anything about it. She liked it, said it was a page turner. She doesn't read Fantasy books as a rule but she loved this one. She'll tell you that the fact that she's my mother-in-law doesn't color her judgement and for those who know Judy, you know she's telling the truth.
But nothing from any other friend or family member.
I understand people have lives, they have their own artistic and personal pursuits, families, jobs, responsibilities that take up every moment of every day. I get it, I really do.
At this point, though, I almost wish they'd just dump it in the trash and tell me they couldn't get through it; that the first two chapters didn't grab them enough to read it through to the end and that the only reason they are attempting to trudge along is because they're my friends and care about me. That the dialogue sucks, it's just not different enough for each character (a critique from the contest). That the concept has been done to death, that it's not original enough in the "sword and sorcery" sub-genre of Fantasy to really make it. That my prose is amateur and clunky. That it sucks the hind teat of Fantasy and should be relegated to the half off bin at Barnes and Noble.
The thing is, I never thought it was the next great Fantasy novel; not like Jacqueline Carey or Brandon Sanderson, or Jim Butcher's stories. But I always thought, or hoped, that it was good. A solid story, with interesting characters, and a villain you might love to hate. And at the very least a story my friends and family would want to read. That if it didn't find a publisher they would want to keep reading because they liked the story. I always thought that, at least, would be enough for me; if I could touch and entertain my friends and family with it.
Not to sound over dramatic, but at this point...well, the thought of building a nice little pyre and setting the damn thing on fire has crossed my mind today.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
To Co-Exist
I once read a biography about Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath called "Her Husband." For those of you who don't know Sylvia Plath is the author of one of the most influential books of poetry of the 20th century called "Ariel". The book was published after she committed suicide.
One of the parts of the biography that I remember the best is when Sylvia is struggling with the idea of having children. She very much wants to be a mother, it's a primal desire within her. But another desire wars with it, the need to be a poet. She worries that the two; poet (artist) and mother can't co-exist, that one will ultimately kill the other.
I know just how she feels.
I struggled for three years to conceive my beautiful little girl, I would not trade her for all the free afternoons of writing or career making acting roles the world had to offer. She holds my heart in her tiny, chubby hand. When she smiles my soul soars, when she cries my soul does too. Her triumphs are mine, her pains are too.
I am a mother, to my bone marrow.
I am also an artist.
Since Rosalind's birth I have acted twice in short plays. It was hard for me to get back into the swing, hard to coordinate Dan getting home in time for me to go to rehearsals and performances. To be honest, if I wasn't frustrated with people wasting my time before I had the baby, I was now. Each time an actor was late, or a rehearsal drawn out I'd feel my body tensing with aggravation and exhaustion. I wasn't sleeping, I hardly had time to eat, I was trying to figure out how to be a mother while also trying to figure out how to memorize lines and be relaxed and in the moment. (My acting teacher Mr. J.D. Coburn would say that "figuring it out" was my first problem. Sometimes I genuinely miss that wise, artistic man.)
It was harder work than ever. And I wasn't sure I was still cut out for it. Truth be told, I'm still not sure. I've denied the actor in me for a while now because to face it was painful. I haven't been sure if I'd ever do the things I dreamed of. Will I ever get to play Beatrice in "Much Ado About Nothing" ? Or just be in a Shakespeare play with a real professional company? Will I ever be a paid actor; not Oscar winning, not super-mega star, but a well respected Indie actress?
I don't know.
I have no idea how to balance the mother with the artist. Like Sylvia I am at a loss to know how to stretch my soul so far.
But, I am reminded of the fact that; baring her massively depressive mind set, Sylvia Plath mothered two beautiful children and wrote a masterful novel called "The Bell Jar" and a visceral, beautiful, haunting book of poetry called "Ariel". Her artist found the time in the midst of motherhood to live and even thrive.
I like to have a plan, I like to know how things are going to happen. And I have no idea how this can happen. It'll take time, that much I know. I always believed I could be artist, wife, mother. Dan believes I can.
And honestly in looking for a nice wrap up to this post I'm coming up empty. The thought of waiting until she's old enough for preschool sounds doable, but I want another child. So what then? Wait another two or three years? Who knows. I refuse to give up but I feel outside pressures making that resolve weaken.
When I stop and breathe, though, the worry lessens, the fear quiets and I have peace. But I still don't know quite where I'm going, or what it'll look like when I get there. I need someone who believes in me, outside of Dan. I need someone who's been where I am and succeeded, who has satisfaction in motherhood and art.
Until then, God help me please. God keep the mother and the artist alive in me.
One of the parts of the biography that I remember the best is when Sylvia is struggling with the idea of having children. She very much wants to be a mother, it's a primal desire within her. But another desire wars with it, the need to be a poet. She worries that the two; poet (artist) and mother can't co-exist, that one will ultimately kill the other.
I know just how she feels.
I struggled for three years to conceive my beautiful little girl, I would not trade her for all the free afternoons of writing or career making acting roles the world had to offer. She holds my heart in her tiny, chubby hand. When she smiles my soul soars, when she cries my soul does too. Her triumphs are mine, her pains are too.
I am a mother, to my bone marrow.
I am also an artist.
Since Rosalind's birth I have acted twice in short plays. It was hard for me to get back into the swing, hard to coordinate Dan getting home in time for me to go to rehearsals and performances. To be honest, if I wasn't frustrated with people wasting my time before I had the baby, I was now. Each time an actor was late, or a rehearsal drawn out I'd feel my body tensing with aggravation and exhaustion. I wasn't sleeping, I hardly had time to eat, I was trying to figure out how to be a mother while also trying to figure out how to memorize lines and be relaxed and in the moment. (My acting teacher Mr. J.D. Coburn would say that "figuring it out" was my first problem. Sometimes I genuinely miss that wise, artistic man.)
It was harder work than ever. And I wasn't sure I was still cut out for it. Truth be told, I'm still not sure. I've denied the actor in me for a while now because to face it was painful. I haven't been sure if I'd ever do the things I dreamed of. Will I ever get to play Beatrice in "Much Ado About Nothing" ? Or just be in a Shakespeare play with a real professional company? Will I ever be a paid actor; not Oscar winning, not super-mega star, but a well respected Indie actress?
I don't know.
I have no idea how to balance the mother with the artist. Like Sylvia I am at a loss to know how to stretch my soul so far.
But, I am reminded of the fact that; baring her massively depressive mind set, Sylvia Plath mothered two beautiful children and wrote a masterful novel called "The Bell Jar" and a visceral, beautiful, haunting book of poetry called "Ariel". Her artist found the time in the midst of motherhood to live and even thrive.
I like to have a plan, I like to know how things are going to happen. And I have no idea how this can happen. It'll take time, that much I know. I always believed I could be artist, wife, mother. Dan believes I can.
And honestly in looking for a nice wrap up to this post I'm coming up empty. The thought of waiting until she's old enough for preschool sounds doable, but I want another child. So what then? Wait another two or three years? Who knows. I refuse to give up but I feel outside pressures making that resolve weaken.
When I stop and breathe, though, the worry lessens, the fear quiets and I have peace. But I still don't know quite where I'm going, or what it'll look like when I get there. I need someone who believes in me, outside of Dan. I need someone who's been where I am and succeeded, who has satisfaction in motherhood and art.
Until then, God help me please. God keep the mother and the artist alive in me.
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